


Sci Fi Johnlock Shorts

by nefariosity, PsychoSkepticalSatan



Category: Sherlock (TV), Star Trek
Genre: Alien Cultural Differences, Alien Culture, Alien Planet, Alien Racism, Alien homophobia?, Alien winter holiday, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Alternate Universe - Star Trek Fusion, Angst, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Domestic, Dysfunctional Family, Engagement, Fluff, M/M, Marriage Proposal, New Years, Supernatural Elements, Winter Holidays Challenge - TUJC Challenge 1, future earth, happy endings all around, unrelated one-shots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-07
Updated: 2015-12-11
Packaged: 2018-05-05 13:20:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5376737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nefariosity/pseuds/nefariosity, https://archiveofourown.org/users/PsychoSkepticalSatan/pseuds/PsychoSkepticalSatan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For The Ultimate Johnlock Collboration Challenge #1</p><p>Challenge was to create Sherlock AU works relating to winter holidays. We decided to do Sci-Fi AU one-shots/shorts/221bs. Enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Christmas yet to come - part 1

**Author's Note:**

> All chapters are finished; one will be posted every day. 
> 
> Chapter by nefariosity. 
> 
> The first of four unrelated sci-fi one shots/shorts; also part one of a series of two 221bs (2nd to be posted at a later date).

_————0753_

Sherlock checks his optical display as soon as he awakes. No missed calls. No messages. 

“It’s still early,” he says aloud to himself.

 

_————1026_

“Happy Christmas, Sherlock,” trills Mrs Hudson as she bustles into the flat with a tray piled precariously with food.  “Have you heard from him yet?” Sherlock ignores her.

 

_————1110_

Sherlock is checking his messages when Lestrade calls. He blinks open a dialogue. “I’ve got a scene over in Lambeth; will you come?” 

Sherlock grins. “I’m on my way.”

 

_————1123_

“There’s been a massive attack in the Divalto sector,” blares a news hologram off Baker Street. “Coalition casualties are still being accounted for and it is unknown whether another Tlsittsiaan force is incoming…” Sherlock shivers at a gust of wind and wraps his coat more tightly around himself. 

 

_————1215_

Sherlock spins around the crime scene more slowly than usual. “I’m sure you would have heard something by now if anything had happened,” says Lestrade. 

 

_————2242_

“To John Watson, wherever the bastard is,” slurs Lestrade, well into his fourth glass of mulled wine. “To John,” parrot back Molly and Mrs Hudson. Sherlock stares at the twinkling of the fairy lights.

 

_————_

Everyone has gone home. Sherlock checks the time. 2359. No messages. No incoming calls. 

“Merry Christmas, John,” he whispers. He gets up from the couch and makes his way to his empty bed. 

 

_————0000_

 

 


	2. To boldly go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A scene aboard a starship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter by nefariosity.
> 
> Star Trek Fusion - but you don't need to know anything about star trek to understand this. 
> 
> For those that care: I tagged this as general "Star Trek" but it takes place around the same time as TNG or maybe DS9 (aka the two best star trek series um)

John had just dragged himself into his quarters after an endless shift in the medical bay when Sherlock appeared and ushered him into his bedroom. “Come on, John, get changed. We don’t have much of Christmas left.” 

“Likeyou give a rat’s arse about Christmas,” grumbled John, but he started shrugging off his uniform, frowning at a spot of something that had somehow managed to land on the blue there. He picked at it for a second, trying to identify it, but Sherlock yanked it out of his hands and tossed it carelessly to the floor. “It’s a stain from your lunch, John. Hurry up.” He tapped his foot impatiently for about another five seconds before storming into the sitting room. John rolled his eyes and finished dressing at a much more sedate pace than before, taking some time to splash some water on his face and pick up his clothes from the floor. 

Refreshed, he strolled back into the sitting room, smirking at Sherlock fidgeting impatiently in his chair. 

“Settle down, Sherlock,” he said, pressing a kiss to his hair before flopping down into his arm chair and groaning at being off his feet for almost the first time all day. He closed his eyes for just a moment and was already halfway to asleep when he heard what sounded like - a bottle of wine being uncorked? He pulled his eyes open again to see Sherlock wrestling with what appeared to be a real bottle of wine. 

“Is that —?” John’s eyes widened at Sherlock’s nod. Real alcohol— especially wine —was not something you often saw on a starship four years into a deep-space mission. John licked his lips. Synthehol was fine, but it couldn’t hold a candle to the real deal.“Here,” he said holding out his hand to see the bottle. Sherlock poured out a generous portion for them both and handed the glass and the bottle over.

“This looks fancy,” said John, taking them both. “2367 Merlot - good year?” 

“Extremely,” said Sherlock, plucking the bottle back out of John’s hand and placing it on the table between them. John took a sip. “Wow - this _is_ good.” He closed his eyes and let himself savor the taste. “Oh, _yum._ Where did you get this? _”_

“Nicked it from Mycroft’s cellar last time I was on Earth,” said Sherlock, sipping his own wine with a similar amount of appreciation. I’ve been saving it for a special occasion.” 

“This is a special occasion?” asked John. “Christmas drinks with your boyfriend? Not that I’m complaining.” 

“Well, with my fiancé,” said Sherlock. John choked on the sip of wine he’d just taken,coughing madly for a good ten seconds before managing to get himself under control.

“Wait, with your _what?_ Did you just _propose?_ ” He sputtered, red-faced and incredulous. He set his wine glass back on the end table with a clunk and “Like _that?_ You complete _git_!” 

“Well I haven’t proposed _yet,_ ” said Sherlock, with that cute pout he did, and christ, John loved this mad bastard so much. “That’s what the wine was for.” John slapped his hand to his face and chuckled helplessly.

“You can never do anything the normal way, can you, Sherlock?” he teased. He slid out of his chair and sauntered over to Sherlock’s, climbing up onto Sherlock’s lap. He bent his head to Sherlock’s neck and kissed the sensitive skin there. 

“You love it,” said Sherlock, breathlessly. 

“You’re damn right I do,” growled John. “Now you’d better come to bed with me right now, _fianc_ é, and bring the wine.”

 

 


	3. Slipping (MyFxckingMechanicalRomanz)

It is said that people who have died and then been bought back to life, via use of electrical voltage to the heart, may find themselves with some rather unique abilities.

Some such people have claimed they can predict the future, read minds or even move physical objects by the power of will. It is inadvisable to take these reports as factual, for there was no solid evidence to back up any of them up. It is a simple case of "he said, she said" and believing whatever suits you best.

Dr. John Hamish Watson, an army doctor stationed on the Afgan borders in late 2009, was shot in the shoulder. Watson should have died from the blood loss, and technically he did. He just didn't stay dead.

12 minutes, 3 shocks to the heart and a litre of B type replacement blood later, and John was back on his own two feet.  Well, almost; he was back on his own two feet with the aid of a walking stick.  It made John feel old.

Dr.  Watson was immediately deported back to England on a veteran pension, which wasn't even enough to rent a flat.

After a long two weeks spent jumping between hotels, John met up with an old friend from military training, who in tern, introduced him to one of his friends, who in tern, introduced him to his flat.  Such a convenient stroke of serendipity was just as amazing as it was unlikely.

Sherlock was his name.  An eccentric man clad in a trench coat and winter pants, though the sun was blazing as brightly over London as it ever did in the midst of the English summer.  He was remarkably bright, and he knew it, too.  He showcased his spectacular skills in deduction, and proved that drawing conclusions could be a good thing.

The very next day John and Sherlock were living together in 221b, fighting crime, drinking tea and arguing like an old married couple. Who would have suspected what happened next? 

Exactly one week post resurrection, some strange occurrences began to centralise around the apartment, the epicentre being none other than John.

Occasionally, only during the night at first, John would get the rather unpleasant sensation of slipping out of his skin, slipping into the ground and slipping out of this world.  He would feel like he was waking up into a dream, and that the dream was his new reality.  He would see things, people. people who looked just like the people he knew, but they would be distorted.  Sometimes with elongated extremities, slanted features and shrunken eyes; sometimes pale and flat and with empty eye sockets, looking for all the world as if the life had been drained from their very souls.  Other times they would be beyond recognition, but for the unique auras surrounding them.  They would treat John as Sherlock, Molly, Greg and all the rest would, and he would try his best to do the return the gesture.  The "others" as John had come to call them, would tell him things.  Things, that when he woke up, would happen. This continued for several months undetected.

####################

The second John felt it, he excused himself and ran to the bathroom.

John.

What, Sherlock?

I have to die now.

What? I have to die now, John, we won't be seeing each other for a while.

Wait, why?

I can't tell you. 

Goodbye.

John was prepared to interrogate Sherlock until the end of time, but clearly the universe didn't want that, as John suddenly felt the slipping, pulling sensation that had grown so familiar over the past three months, yet still felt so simply alien.

  He rushed back to the lab to check on Sherlock. John looked over at his friend, bouncing a rubber ball against the gleaming metal autopsy bench. He didn't look dead. In fact, he looked more alive than ever.

Buzzzzzz.

John felt his mobile vibrate in his pocket, pulled it out and answered the unknown number. He began to feel dizzy as he listened to the nameless speaker. John didn't remember much of what he said, but he understood enough.

Mrs. Hudson. Shot. Dying. Come immediately.

John yelled, he screamed and he insulted, but try as he might, he was unable to convince Sherlock to come.   John walked out of the room, fuming, and Sherlock continued to bounce the ball absentmindedly, seemingly unfazed.

That was how John found himself running blindly toward an undisturbed apartment and a Mrs.  Hudson who was most certainly NOT bleeding to death in the stairwell.

John realised what was going on far too late.

In a panicked state, John took a cab back to St Bart's, severely over paying the less-than-honest cabbie, running out onto the busy street, dodging cars, buses and bikes, all whilst simultaneously looking for his friend.

Buzzzzzzz.

"Sherlock? Where are you?  What's going on?" ... As the conversation progressed, some tiny part in the back of John's mind knew what was going on, knew what was going to happen, but the rest of his mind wanted to stay blissfully, selfishly ignorant.  And so it did, even as Sherlock took that fateful step and plummeted to his death.    Even when John took his pulse, when he saw his corpse cut open, being examined in the lab.  Even when Sherlock's clearly rather lifeless cadaver was being lowered into the grave, shovel after shovel of dirt heaped on top, John still chose to be ignorant.

John found that he could no longer stay silent.  What would you expect?  John knew something they didn't.

He approached Greg Lestrade on the subject in private.  The subject of his visions.  John told Greg what he had seen.  Greg told John that he should get therapy.

It was only after 13 sleepless nights, plagued by visions of a distorted, wavering Sherlock -black pits in place of his eyes- jumping, falling, bleeding out on the pavement, overdosing, being hit by cars, being stabbed, molested, beaten, whipped and tortured by foreign men, also eyeless, with accents as thick as their coats, that John actually decided to take Lestrade's advise.

John was admitted to what they called a "Mental Care Facility" for "Post Traumatic Stress Disorder" and "Possible Schizophrenia", but John knew what they really meant was an Asylum for the  fucking insane.

Drugs, drugs and more drugs.  Numbness was happiness.  Might as well have been the goddamn slogan for the place.  After three months, it was all John knew.  He only ever got one visitor:  Mrs.  Hudson, and he was lonely, well, as lonely as you can be when your entire psyche is dulled down by drugs that if you refuse to take by will, are rammed down your throat when you least expect it.

At least the visions, or "delusions" as the orderlies and psychotherapists called them, had stopped.

"Sherlock is dead.  The sooner you accept it, the sooner you can go home."

My ass he's dead.

"I know.  And i do accept it, I have for a long while now."

"I want you to say it."

"Sherlock is dead."

Psych!

John continued this way for a while, just long enough to be sent home.  Luckily Mrs.  Hudson had not rented out the flat to anyone else.

################

Entry 356. It has been 412 days since Sherlock's disappearance.  I have long since stopped taking the pills, but the visions are yet to return.  I now have a theory on the visions, that I managed to come to after 12 days of research;  alternate dimensions.  It may seem crazy, maybe down right insane, but it fits. It's feels like I'm slipping out of this world and into another, and what the others have told me has alway come to pass, in some way or another.

####################

John was obsessed, as everyone could clearly tell, with finding a very dead man, he assumed to be very alive.  Sally Donovan, a Sergeant at Scotland Yard,  had half a mind to fish out Sherlock's decaying body and show it to John, but she knew he wasn't right in the head anymore, so she restrained herself.

#####################

Entry 372 It has been 428 days since Sherlock's disappearance. The visions have not yet returned. Theory #56 Sherlock: Sherlock is currently INSIDE one of the alternate dimensions, and only one person can enter at a time, which would explain my lack of visions.  Sherlock entered the day he fell, and locked me out, because me and Sherlock are connected, mentally. All I need to do is find a way to open the gate and bring him back.

#####################

John had become smarter, to put it simply.  His eyes more acute, his mind faster and his wit quicker.  He had practically become Sherlock.  Lestrade wanted him to go back to the institute, but he couldn't bring himself to say it.  He knew he was being selfish, but the crime scenes were dealt with so much quicker this way.

#####################

Entry 377. It has been 433 days since Sherlock's disappearance. The visions have not returned. I think I have found a way to open the gate.  A mental bridge.  A connection (theoretically). may be formed if the two ends of the bridge (me and Sherlock) both administer a lethal dose of cocaine and morphine to ourselves within an minute of each other.  The tricky bit will be timing it.  We only have one shot at this. Well, obviously.

######################

Everybody knew John was on drugs, but everybody pretended they didn't.  Because they could tell that rehab would destroy him quicker than the drugs would.

######################

40 days later, John sat on the floor of a dilapidated old warehouse, high out of his mind on Lysergic Acid Diethylamide, Diacetylmorphine and other illicit drugs, with two overdose syringes in hand (just in case one wasn't enough).  After many, many nights of hacking into government documents he shouldn't even have known existed, John had found a way to talk to sherlock, with the aid of a very precise, very specific mixture of narcotics.  They had planned this night together, and had been planning it for the past fortnight.  Tonight they would take the plunge.  Tonight they would do or die.

######################

Mrs.  Hudson had called Greg Lestrade, frantically notifying him of John's disappearance.  It had been 3 days.  Greg quickly sent out multiple search parties, all in different directions, with only one instruction.  Find John.

######################

John sat on the floor, counting the seconds, knowing Sherlock would be doing the same.  John wasn't scared, he wasn't even exited.  Because John knew this would work. He plunged the first syringe into his arm and hummed quietly to himself.  Waiting.

######################

Greg shouted orders through walkie talkies, texted rapid responses (with enough spelling mistakes to give your average grammar nazi a mental break down), and by just yelling the commands at the top of his lungs, all whilst simultaneously leading a search party.  John, John, John.

#####################

John began to feel dizzy, almost loosing his balance even though he was sitting cross-legged on the floor.  The lights were far to bright one second, and the next not seen at all.  The world faded to black, then the black faded to rainbow, and then the rainbow faded to Sherlock.  John slowly reached out a mental hand to his friends consciousness.  There was an explosion of blinding, white light as their hands connected.  John could tell the bridge was falling down; they had to keep holding on.  When the bridge falls, they won't fall with it. They'll fly. Fly back home.

######################

Greg searched every drug den, every bar, every goddamn place someone could purchase relief in the form of liquid, powder, needles or pills. After all, that's where he usually found John when he disappeared.

#####################

The rainbow bridge crumbled away beneath them, and then John felt it; he was slipping.  Slipping back home, arm in arm with his Sherlock.  His Sherlock?  John had been referring to him like that the entire time he was trapped, but now he was coming back, it somehow felt possessive; intimate.

###################

Greg ran street after street, flashlight in hand and a vice grip holding his heart.  It was normal to loose friends in his line of work, but two of his closest friends in under two years? I can't loose you, too, John. The thought played over and over in Greg's head like a broken gramophone as he wandered the London streets, alone (as he had long since separated from his colleagues), armed with just a flashlight and a flash-flood of tears, threatening to break the damn at any moment.

###################

It was unlike any return John had ever experienced. They crashed to the unforgiving concrete floor of the wearhouse, hands clamped around each other's wrists. It hurt, but they were back. Together. John rolled over to make sure his Sherlock was alright. He wasn't. There was scarring all over his once smooth skin, signs of torture, pain and anguish. His cheeks and zygomatic arches hollow and dark, his eyes sunken, but bright. "I knew you would find me," sherlock collapsed onto John's shoulder, not even trying to hide his tears; showing weakness. Something the old Sherlock never would have done.

###################

Greg had began searching all the depleted, abandoned buildings in the near vicinity. He ordered the search parties to do the same. All starting at different corners of London, they worked their way inward, toward the centre, searching every last cockroach-swarming, rat-infested shithole they came by on the way.

###################

"Of course I would, Sherlock. I've been trying to find you for more than a year," John's eyes twinkled with unshed tears, "you've been missing for 473 days, and never once did I even consider giving up." Though Sherlock looked so broken, so defeated, so dead, John saw something he never thought he would. Sherlock smiled. It wasn't sad, or pained or untrue. It was beautiful. Before he even realised what he was doing, John leaned forward, brushed his lips gently, delicately, against Sherlock's own swollen, bloodied ones.  Then, for the second time that night, Sherlock shocked him.  He began kissing back, softly at first, but growing steadily more passionate.   Sherlock pulled away, far too soon, in John's opinion and grinned.  "473 days you say?  That I've been gone?" "Yes?" "Merry Christmas John."

##################

It was Sally who found them.  Sally who found Sherlock and John huddled together, asleep in an old industrial building, at 5:46 am on a cold Christmas morning.  It was Sally who threw her coat over Sherlock's bare shoulders to keep him warm and it was Sally who called the ambulance.  No questions were asked about Sherlock's resurrection.  Not because nobody wanted to ask, (they most certainly did), but because they couldn't.  Sherlock had disappeared again, the very day he was released from St.  Bart's.  But this time John was by his side. Nobody knew their whereabouts, or at least that was what the public was told.  Four people, just four people knew, but the location became their most closely guarded secret.  Mrs.  Hudson had come with her boys, for she couldn't stand the thought of loosing them again.  Mycroft knew because he knew everything.  Harry knew, because John would have felt bad about not telling his sister. And DI Greg Lestrade knew, (and visited every Christmas) because he was their best, most trusted friend. John and Sherlock when about their lives, living in an isolated costal town in northern England, solving small crimes for a living and going by the aliases of Dr. Hamish and Mr. William Holmson.

For once, a story has a happy ending.


	4. A family affair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Regular family drama... on an alien planet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter by nefariosity.
> 
> So I totally made up this alien planet and I wrote a lot of background world-building stuff that I can post if people want. I had my sisters proofread this to make sure it wasn't too confusing, but always feel free to ask if something didn't make sense slash I can post some of the world-building stuff I did in a different work if people want. I'm seriously considering writing a longer fic about this version of John and Sherlock on this different world, so maybe look out for that. 
> 
> As a note: it was my original intention to make physiologically interesting aliens to populate this world, but after I started brainstorming for this and coming up with holidays and languages and countries, etc., I realized it would probably be too much new stuff for a one-shot to also come up with really different aliens. So I went the star trek route and made the aliens pretty much humans, haha. One race is even called human to convey what I wanted to convey (ie., they aren't just the same species from different countries). I decided that these guys are actually from earth, but they were brought over by aliens to this planet at an early point in human development (like pre-recorded history) :P 
> 
> PS - if you speak Georgian or Finnish, you will recognize a lot of the "alien" words -- I sometimes straight up stole from these languages because I'm sick of how alien languages from like star trek and stuff all sound the same (everyone goes for the CV/CVC languages cause those are the easiest to make up... Darmok and Jalad at Tanagra, anyone?). So sorry if I stole from your language, but I love these two languages because of their interesting phonotactic structures. I also wanted the two languages I used from this world to sound distinct, and this was an easy way to do that.

 

“Mvoda,” called out Sherlock, raising up his arm to be seen through the throng of Siil and humans going about their daily business in the bustling Siil capital. “Opi, mvoda!” A red cab pulled up next to them and Sherlock grabbed his suitcase and pushed his way up to the curb, not bothering to look back and see if John was following. 

* * *

_1 hour previously________

 

“Come on, Sherlock, don’t be like this,” said John, as Sherlock slammed the wardrobe door yet again. 

“Like what, John?” snapped Sherlock. “Like I’m being dragged to my racist in-laws’ house during Sastsauli _yet again_ despite all my protests?” 

“Sastsauli isn’t that big of a holiday, Sherlock,” snapped John right back. “And I can’t even _count_ the number of times you’ve complained that it’s just a stupid excuse for companies to sell overpriced flowers and sweets. Kaalas is _the_ holiday. I can’t just _not_ go home for it!” 

“You don’t care about Kaalas any more than I do,” said Sherlock, flinging a shirt into his case. “And yes, Sastsauli is an insipid excuse for a holiday for we barbaric Siil, but I’d still like to be able to spend it with my _husband_ and _not_ with your parents.”

John blanched. “That’s not fair,” he hissed. “You know I don’t feel that way about the Siil.” 

“And yet, you’re taking me to spend the next two days with your parents, whom you _know_ feel exactly that way.” 

“They’re my _parents_ , Sherlock. And it’s Kaalas.”

“And I’m your _husband_ ,” sniped back Sherlock.

“I _know,_ ” yelled John. Sherlock clenched his fists. “I know you’re my husband, and that’s why I want you to come. Kalaas is all about spending time with the people you _love_.” 

Sherlock’s clenched his jaw, not much molified. “You’ve a funny way of showing it,” he mumbled. “ _Gvas!_ ”He slammed his case shut and stalked out the door.  

* * *

 “Have a good trip,” said the rail conductor in Bhasa as he checked the tickets they’d pulled up on their hand displays and found them satisfactory. “Bednieri drotsauli. _Happy holidays._ ”

“Tkvents,” mumbled John. 

“Bednieri _Sas_ tsauli,” said Sherlock, pointedly. John scowled. They gave up their luggage to the loading drone and made their way inside. When they found their row, Sherlock quite deliberately took the window seat and set his travel bag on the seat next to him, forcing John to take the aisle seat. 

“I’m going to have to move over, you know,” said John irritably. “This train is going to be packed going lowland the day before Kaalas.” Sherlock ignored him. 

 _“Departing Bhovez in fifteen minutes,”_ announced a cool voice over the intercom. 

* * *

 Sherlock stared gloomily out the window as the electrorail tore through the countryside. Hetan and Luli were visible even now, during the day, and almost aligned. _Or rather, Miës and Nainen_ , Sherlock corrected himself. They had left Siilamid a while ago and were now well into Gilviantamid, and Sherlock had to remember to call the moons by their Gilvian names. But whatever they were called, tomorrow their orbits would completely align, and would create a supermoon so bright that night became like day. This annual lunar phenomenon was celebrated across the world almost without fail, although the diversity of the traditions surrounding the celebrations was truly breathtaking. 

 _And we’re going to be stuck in the arse end of Gilviantamid, celebrating Kaalas with John’s parents,_ thought Sherlock with a scowl. He glanced at John from the corner of his eye. Asleep. As John had predicted, the train had filled right up and Sherlock had been forced to move his bag and let John move next to him. A petty part of Sherlock scowled at the affront, but there was always a part of him, no matter how angry he was, that was happy to have John close. And he was still angry; angry that John was making them come out to Gilviantamid, angry that this was the one hostile environment John wouldn’t protect him from. But a bigger part of him wanted to make up with John. Not only did he hate fighting, but they needed to be a unified team when they walked into John’s parents’ house. 

“John,” he said softly, gently shaking John awake. “John.” 

“Wazzat,” said John, sleepily. “Sherlock?” 

“I’m sorry John,” whispered Sherlock, twining their fingers together, John’s short and stubby against his own longer Siil fingers. “I overreacted earlier.” John sighed and nudged and nuzzled his head up against Sherlock, and Sherlock knew he was forgiven. 

“So did I,” he said quietly. “It’s a stressful time, and I know you don’t like going to see my parents. Thank you for coming with me, Sherlock-ni.” 

“Always,” said Sherlock. 

* * *

 “John,” trilled his mother as he and Sherlock trooped into the house, bags in hand. She didn’t even wait for him to drop them before squeezing him into an awkward embrace. “So good to see my only son again,” she said in Gilvian. Hands trapped by the bags, John leaned into her as best he could. “Hello ama,” he said, managing to wriggle his way out of the embrace after a few endless seconds. “How are you and ota doing?” This he said in Common, for Sherlock’s sake. Sherlock could speak perfectly passable Gilvian, but was by no means fluent as he was in Bhasa or Common, and it cut John to hear Sherlock sound anything less than perfectly articulate. 

“Oh, you know,” she said breezily, continuing in Gilvian. “We’re doing fine. It would be nice to hear from our only son a little more often - especially since the last time you called us it was to talk about —“ John cleared his throat, pointedly. 

“Sherlock,” said his mother, acknowledging his husband for the first time. Still in Gilvian, of course. “Where are my manners?” John kept from groaning, barely, as she sank into a full ceremonial bow, even making the correct complex head movements. The greeting was more appropriate for visiting dignitaries than for family. He couldn’t tell if this passive aggressive “respect” was better or worse than her previous outright hostility. 

“Yes, thank you for the welcome, _Amaasi_ ,” he said in Gilvian, realizing it would be pointless to try and win this war with his mother. If you’ll excuse us, though, my husbandand I will need to freshen up a bit before dinner.” 

“Of course,” said his mother, her smile a little too bright to quite be genuine. “One hour, John-ni-naa. I expect you to be on time.” John longed to let out a sharp retort, but he bit his tongue. No need to break an already fragile peace. 

“Yes, ama.” 

* * *

 Exactly one hour later, John and Sherlock were seated next to each other at the long table that John’s parents pulled out every year for Kaalas. Most of John’s extended family were present, but to his pleasant surprise, they were seated across from his cousin Sulna and her husband. The two of them were around John and Sherlock’s ages, and they had both been avid proponents of the legalization of interspecies marriage a few years back. The rest of John’s religious family had had to be dragged into the 23rd century kicking and screaming, and most still looked at Sherlock with distrust in their eyes. John flashed a tight smile at his mother in thanks. 

Dinner passed uneventfully enough. Sulna carried on passionately about her new cause - android rights - in between hasty forkfuls ofJohn’s mother’s delicous _pitolime’en_. Sherlock joined in passionately while John and Sulna’s husband nodded along appropriately and shot each other commiserating glances every now and again. John finally started to relax, thinking that maybe his family really had got the message this time, and they could all come out of the night unscathed. 

But then dessert was served and all hell broke loose. 

“John,” whispered Sherlock, halfway through his slice of _lullen_. John frowned as Sherlock slipped something smooth and cold into his hand. He closed his hand around it - it was the silver coin representing Nainen that had been baked into the _lullen_. There was one such coin for Nainen and one for Miës; whoever found the coins in their slice had to kiss someone else at the table. Traditionally, the two coin-finders kissed each other, but this modified version had been the norm at the Watson table ever since Sherlock had joined it six years ago. “Sulna’s got the other one.” 

“Sherlock,” John whispered back, taking his husband’s hand in his own. He squeezed. 

“No, John,” said Sherlock in a low voice. “It’s not worth it. Your family…”

“I think they can handle a little kiss on the cheek,” murmured John. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. “And if they can’t, well… they need to get used to it.” He cleared his throat. “Nainen has found her Miës,” he announced to the table in Gilvian, holding the coin aloft. 

“John,” said his mother. Soft. Warning. John ignored her. 

“Onnessimen Kaalas, bultamenni-naa,” he said softly, and kissed his husband on the cheek. 

“Onnessimen Kaalas, savareltsi-abektda,” said Sherlock, returning the small kiss. At the head of the table, John’s father began to cry. 

“Ilapsi-naa,” he sobbed. “ _My son_.” 

“Ota—” said John. 

“Look what you’ve done,” snapped his mother. “We have both graciously tolerated your _husband_ here for the past six years — there’s no need for a display like that.”

“A display, ama?” said John in disbelief. “Believe me, we could do much worse than that!” 

“Not in _my_ house, you couldn’t!”

Abruptly, Sherlock pushed his chair out from the table and disappeared out into the hallway. Sulna looked up at John sympathetically, but didn’t say anything. The rest of his family stared on, their faces distorted with disgust. John seethed. 

“You know, I don’t think we’ll be doing much of anything in this house in the near future, actually,” he said. Calmly, he got up from his chair and followed Sherlock out the door. 

* * *

 John found Sherlock lying at the top of a small hill not far from his parents’ house - where they’d always gone in the past to be alone when they’d been visiting Gilviantamid. The air was frigid, but you wouldn’t be able to tell by looking at Sherlock, sprawled out as he was over the frozen grass. John envied his Siil blood in that moment. The light of Miës and Nainen cast an otherworldly glow over his husband’s features. 

“Do you know the story behind Sastsauli?” asked Sherlock without sitting up, without looking over at John. John sighed and sat down next to him. 

“All I know is that it’s an excuse for Siil to have their significant other buy them nice things and have sex,” he said. “And for companies to sell overpriced merchandise for that purpose.”

“That’s all true,” said Sherlock. But the story behind it is… interesting. It was always one of my favorites growing up.” He sat up and grasped his knees, sighing.

“In my culture, it’s Mhekve and Hetan — the sun and the larger moon, your Miës — that are the parents of this world. Of the Siil. He waved his hand. “Superstitious nonsense, of course - a product of a primitive culture struggling to explain the world -“ John placed a hand on Sherlock’s arm, stopping him mid-sentence. 

“Preaching to the choir, love,” he said. “And I know that much. I have lived in Bhovez for the past fifteen years. It’s hard to avoid that story during the summer tsauli.”

“True enough,” said Sherlock. He exhaled loudly, his hot breath clouding the cold air. “Hetan loved Mhekve in his own way, but their relationship was one of duty to the Siil, not of romance. His true love was his consort, Luli.”

“Luli - that’s my Nainen, right?” He shivered, and Sherlock moved closer, pressing them together. 

“Yes,” confirmed Sherlock. “And Sastsauli is the celebration of their union - the union of two men. We don’t take our religion as literally as you humans do, and from a young age, I was dismissive of the old stories. But this one was always… compelling to me. You know I didn’t have any lovers before you, John, but I always loved Sastsauli regardless. A day where people like me - like _us -_ are celebrated.” He sighed deeply through his nose.“That’s why I never want to come here. You’re the first person I’ve ever wanted to share Sastsauli with, and I… can’t.”  

John felt tears prickle behind his words, and his voice cracked embarrassingly when he spoke again.“You romantic,” he said. “Gods, come here, I love you so much.” He leaned in and started to kiss at Sherlock’s neck. “My mountain prince. My Luli.” 

“John-abektda, John savareltsi,” sighed Sherlock. “My beloved, my John — “ 

“We’ll stay at home next year, just the two of us,” whispered John, nosing at Sherlock’s neck. “My parents can go hang for all I care right now.” 

“Thank you John,” murmured Sherlock. “And as for this year - it is still Sastsauli,” he whispered, baring his neck for John to continue to bite at it. “Hetan and Luli are joined as one in the heavens. And here we are, together.” 

“Here we are,” repeated John, pulling back just enough to stare into Sherlock’s eyes before kissing him on that hilltop, Hetan and Luli shining brightly behind them. 

 


	5. Christmas yet to come - part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter by nefariosity.

_————0517_

Sherlock is jerked awake by a deep-space call coming through his internal interface. Panic floods him, and he contemplates letting it ring out. He knows instinctively that it’s either the best or the worst news of his life, and the possibility that it might be the latter paralyzes him. Finally, he blinks open the call. It takes a while for the picture to load, but once it does, the breath is knocked out of him. 

“John,” he gasps. He reaches out as though to touch him, though there is nothing but air in front of him. 

“God, it’s so good to see you love,” rasps John. He looks awful - clearly exhausted and covered in grime and blood. He’s obviously been working around the clock in the aftermath of the recent attack. “I’m sorry I couldn’t call before - things have been rather hectic here.” 

“John,” sobs Sherlock, tears blurring his bedroom behind his display. It’s the only word he can manage. 

“Oh, love,” says John, and his eyes start to fill as well. Sherlock wants to touch him so badly it hurts.“Listen, I can’t talk any longer. Just wanted to let you know I’m alive.” 

Despite his best efforts, tears leak out of the corner of Sherlock’s eyes. “I love you.” 

“I love you too, Sherlock. Happy new year, baby.” 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ;)
> 
> I could never do a sad ending for these two...
> 
> Also I mostly hate John calling Sherlock baby, but... needs must with 221bs.


End file.
